Obliviate
The following night, a thick fog clung to the ground as Hermione stood amongst the Order members gathered in the field. The air crackled with anticipation. Laughter and conversation mingled with the comforting warmth radiating from the towering bonfire. Whiskey flowed freely, and the clinking of glasses punctuated the excited chatter. Hermione nervously adjusted her mask. She observed the others, their eyes alight with a newfound hope that warmed her despite the chill.
Then, a hush fell over the crowd. His voice, a low distorted rumble that resonated through the field, silenced the merrymaking. "Welcome, everyone," he boomed, his words hanging heavy in the damp air.
Hermione's gaze was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He stood with an air of authority that commanded attention, his imposing figure seeming to grow even larger in the flickering firelight. His broad shoulders and powerful frame were barely concealed by his dark robes, and a lock of midnight black hair escaped his hood, falling across the stark white of his skeletal mask. His eyes, the only part of his face visible, burned with an intensity that made her swallow.
It was strange, she thought, how intimately he knew her mind, her memories and thoughts laid bare before him during their intense lessons. Yet, the man himself remained an enigma. Despite the fear and resentment she felt towards him after he initially invaded her mind, a grudging respect had bloomed within her. He was a leader, a protector, risking his life for a cause they all believed in.
A gust of wind whipped through the field, and Hermione pulled her cloak tighter around her, seeking a warmth that the fire couldn't provide. But the chill she felt went deeper than her skin. It was the thrill of danger, the weight of her mission, and the undeniable allure of the masked man before her that truly captivated her. She found herself mesmerized, just like everyone else, by the enigmatic leader of the Order.
“I have asked you all to gather here because we have three new recruits to welcome into our ranks,” he announced, his voice resonating through the misty field.
Surprise flickered through her. She hadn't realized she wasn't the only newcomer. A sense of camaraderie, however tentative, bloomed within her.
His gaze swept across the crowd, finally settling on Hermione and two others – a man and a woman, their identities concealed by their chosen masks. Hermione's own mask, a simple creation of dark fabric, paled in comparison to the elaborate designs worn by some of the others. But it served its purpose, shielding her features from prying eyes.
"Please come forward," he beckoned, his voice an invitation and a command.
Hermione joined the two other recruits before the assembled Order. As she stood beside their leader, she felt the familiar brush of his power against the edges of her mental shields. It was a gentle probe, seeking entry rather than forcing its way in. Trusting the connection they had forged, she lowered her defenses, allowing him access to her mind.
It's tradition for new recruits to choose the name they wish to go by. What would you like yours to be? His voice echoed within her thoughts, a distorted whisper that sent shivers down her spine.
It had been some time since he had entered her mind, and the sensation was both familiar and unsettling. Where once his intrusions had been associated with pain and fear, now... now she wasn't sure how she felt. His dark eyes, visible through the eyeholes of his mask, seemed to bore into her very soul.
What's yours? she finally asked, the question burning within her for so long.
Finally, she had the opportunity to know what to call him, to give a name to the enigmatic figure who had so profoundly impacted her life.
A pause hung in the air, the crackling of the bonfire the only sound. Then, he answered, his voice a low rumble in her mind.
Stryker.
Stryker... she repeated, savoring the way it felt on her tongue.
It was like a missing piece slotting into place, a revelation that resonated deep within her.
It suits you, she responded, a genuine smile gracing her lips. She could have sworn she saw his eyes crinkle at the corners, a hint of amusement in their depths.
I don't care what my name is... will you pick?
He didn't respond, his attention shifting to the bonfire. After a moment of contemplation, he turned back to the crowd, introducing the other recruits. Twig and Shadow , they had chosen, their names reflecting aspects of their personalities or abilities she guessed.
Then, his eyes found Hermione's once more. Ember, he declared, his voice firm and resolute.
The name resonated with her. It spoke of the golden light that burned within her, the magic that coursed through her veins, and the peaceful, vibrant forest of her soul. She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips, accepting the name he had bestowed upon her. Ember. It felt right.
After the introductions and the buzz of excitement that followed, Stryker excused himself from the merry crowd, who had now resumed their drinking and dancing with renewed vigor. Hermione watched him disappear into the shadows, his tall figure swallowed by the darkness.
Meet me in the tent, his gravelly voice echoed in her mind, a private summons that sent a flutter of anticipation through her.
She lingered for a few moments, allowing Stryker time to settle in, before making her way towards the dimly lit tent. As she entered, the warmth of a roaring fire enveloped her. Stryker sat at his desk, the flames casting dancing shadows across his masked face. Before him lay a few objects, and Hermione approached, drawn by curiosity.
One was a small, leather bound journal. Beside it rested a delicate silver ring, its surface etched with intricate symbols.
"Now that you are training to become a member of the Order," Stryker began, his voice low and serious, "we need to take a few safety precautions." He gestured towards the journal. "This is how you will communicate with us while you are at the palace. It requires a specific spell to be read, one that only you will know. The messages will appear for a short time before disappearing, ensuring secure communication." He paused, his dark eyes meeting hers. "You can use any type of quill. I will also cast a spell that will notify you whenever a message arrives."
"Okay..." Hermione nodded, absorbing the information. "What about the ring?" she asked, her gaze falling on the silver band.
"The ring is a distress beacon," Stryker explained. "If you are ever in danger or need immediate assistance, twist it three times. Your partner will be able to see your location and apparate to you, or as close as possible." He leaned back in his chair, his expression grim. "These are new measures we have implemented due to the recent discoveries and murders of Order members. We cannot be too careful."
"Partner?" Hermione questioned, her brow furrowing.
"Yes," Stryker confirmed. "You will have a partner who will wear the matching ring and hold the connected journal."
"Oh," Hermione murmured, her mind racing. "Who will my partner be?"
Stryker extended his left hand. It was a strong hand, large and calloused, bearing the marks of countless hours spent dueling and fighting. Suddenly, a small silver ring materialized on his ring finger, identical to the one lying on the desk.
Hermione's mouth fell open in surprise. "You? Why you?"
"No one else was available," Stryker replied, his voice calm and matter of fact. "And given your precarious position as part of the Selection and your proximity to the royal family, I was the best option."
"Are you sure this is entirely necessary?" She pressed, a flicker of doubt in her voice. The idea of being so closely connected to Stryker, even for the sake of safety, felt... overwhelming.
He met her gaze, his dark eyes intense and unwavering. "It is," he stated firmly.
He disillusioned the ring on his finger and reached into his pocket, retrieving something that stole Hermione's breath away. A wand. Her very own wand, for the first time in her life. She reached for it tentatively, her fingers trembling with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. The moment her fingers connected with it, a jolt of energy surged through her, and she felt her magic flow into the polished wood. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her very soul, a sense of belonging and power she had never experienced before. For a fleeting second, the hand that held the wand shimmered with a golden light, her magic was awakening within her.
Hermione stared at Stryker, speechless, her heart overflowing with gratitude. He observed her with an unreadable expression, his head tilted slightly. "You will begin training tonight," he stated, his voice firm but laced with a hint of encouragement.
He stood and retrieved the ring from the table. Without a word, he gently took her hand in his, his touch sent a shiver of unexpected warmth through her. His skin was surprisingly warm and softer than it looked. He slid the ring onto her left ring finger, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat of his touch. With a flick of his wrist, he cast a disillusionment charm, concealing the ring from sight. Hermione could still feel its presence, a comforting weight on her finger.
"The ring will inform me if your heart rate spikes," Stryker explained, his voice low and steady. "If you experience any intense emotions... fear, anger, pain... I will feel it through the ring."
Her mouth formed a small "oh" of surprise, her mind reeling from the implications. This connection, this intimate link between them, was far deeper than she had initially realized.
"And will I feel you?" she asked hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your emotions, I mean?"
"No," he replied, his voice firm and resolute.
A flicker of disappointment washed over her and she didn’t know why.
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his masked face for any hint of his thoughts, his motivations. But Stryker remained an enigma, his expression unreadable, his intentions a mystery. Despite the undeniable connection they shared, a chasm of uncertainty still separated them.
"You are already well-versed in hand to hand combat," he began, his voice low and steady. "So we will focus on mastering magic using your new wand. A man called Saint is waiting for you outside to begin your training."
He studied her for a moment, his dark eyes searching hers, as if anticipating questions. But she couldn't form words. He had given her a wand, a symbol of hope and power. He was investing his time and resources in her, believing in her ability to complete the task ahead. She couldn't fathom why. Surely, he wanted the king dead as much as the rest of them, but there was something more in his actions, a sense of urgency and determination that she couldn't quite decipher.
When she remained silent, he turned back towards his desk.
"Stryker..." she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
He turned, his gaze questioning.
"I need to tell you something," she continued, her voice gaining strength.
He sat down on the edge of his desk, motioning for her to continue. She wasn't sure why she trusted him, but she did. Perhaps it was the connection they shared, the vulnerability she had allowed herself to show him, the missing piece of her soul that he had helped her find.
"That vision," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "the one shown by the seer, with the woman, the shield, and the blue flames..."
"Yes..." he encouraged, his eyes fixed on hers.
"I think the woman in the vision... I think that was me," she confessed, the words tumbling out of her mouth.
He remained silent, but his eyes urged her to continue.
"I have no desire to destroy the shield," she admitted, her voice firming with resolve. "And I have never wielded that kind of power before. My plan is to kill the king and find a way out with Pita. I can't stay here and fight this fight, risking her life."
"And how do you plan to find a way out if not by destroying the shield?" he questioned, his voice laced with curiosity.
"I know there's a way," she insisted. "The snatchers come and go. I just need to figure it out."
"Hmm," he mused, crossing his arms. "And what of the rest of the kingdom?"
"I only care about Pita," she stated, her voice unwavering.
"Perhaps you are mistaken then," he countered, his tone gentle but probing. "There are plenty of witches in this kingdom with dark curly hair and ravaged backs."
She didn't respond, a flicker of doubt creeping into her mind. Perhaps he was right.
"Perhaps..." she conceded. "But... I just wanted you to know. In case you had already guessed who the woman in the vision was, in case you were putting in all this effort in the hopes that I am some sort of savior. I don't care to save this place. I only want to save one person, a little girl who I can't risk. My sole mission is to kill the king and nothing else."
"I understand," he finally said, his voice filled with a mixture of acceptance and something she couldn't quite place.
He rose from the desk and walked towards her, his movements deliberate and measured. Gently, he took her hand in his, raising it slightly as he gazed down at her. She stilled, a wave of warmth flooding through her at his touch. It was a sensation she couldn't quite understand, a mix of comfort and a strange fluttering in her chest.
"Don't forget about the ring," he whispered, his voice low and intense. "Promise me you will use it if you are in danger."
"I promise," she whispered back, her gaze locked with his.
He released her hand and moved past her, lifting the tent flap to reveal the darkness beyond. She stepped out into the cool night air, her mind awhirl with the events of the last hour.
*****
Three hours later, sweat beaded on her brow as she struggled to master a particularly challenging spell. She had met Saint and another Order member called Fox immediately after leaving Stryker's tent, and they had wasted no time in starting her training. Saint, a man of average height with dark hair that fell over his silver mask, possessed the most striking emerald green eyes she had ever seen. Fox, on the other hand, was tall, almost as tall as Stryker, with hesitant blue eyes that observed her every move.
They had begun with basic spells, and both men seemed impressed with her natural ability and quick grasp of the fundamentals. Many of the spells she could already perform wandlessly, so having a wand to focus her magic made it significantly easier. As the training progressed, they moved on to protective and defensive spells, techniques unfamiliar to Hermione. Saint and Fox were relentless, pushing her to her limits, not allowing her to rest until she mastered each and every incantation.
"Do you always wear masks?" She asked between ragged breaths, hoping for a momentary respite from the intense training. She was growing increasingly uncomfortable beneath her own mask, constantly adjusting it as sweat trickled down her face. It would be much easier to train without it.
Fox and Saint exchanged a glance before Saint finally spoke. "Not always," he replied. "When we are out in the open like this, yes. Or when we are with Order members who have yet to take an Unbreakable Vow."
"An Unbreakable Vow?" She questioned, intrigued.
"Yes," Saint explained. "It is a vow that members take at the end of their training. A vow of secrecy, of loyalty. A vow to protect the Order and its members at all costs."
"I'll take it now," Hermione declared, eager to remove her mask. "I don't want to wear this anymore."
"Stryker doesn't allow anyone to take the vow before their training is complete," Saint stated firmly. "Taking the vow is not something to be taken lightly. It is a big responsibility. If broken, it results in imminent death."
"Does Stryker ever remove his mask?" She asked, her curiosity piqued. She had spent countless hours wondering what lay beneath the stark white surface, what secrets his face held.
"Only a select few have seen Stryker without his mask," Saint responded, his voice laced with a hint of reverence.
Interesting , Hermione thought to herself, before a spell whizzed past her ear, forcing her back into the training exercise.
When she finally returned to the palace, her body ached, and exhaustion weighed heavily on her. Yet, she felt more alive than ever before. She carried the journal and her wand concealed within the folds of her cloak. Upon reaching her room, she lifted a loose floorboard and carefully hid the wand within its depths. The journal she placed on her bedside table, its unassuming appearance a perfect disguise. She could still feel the cool presence of the ring on her finger, a secret connection to Stryker that remained hidden from view.
Just as sleep began to pull her under, a wave of warmth spread through her core, jolting her awake. Her eyes flew open, and she sat up, heart pounding, scanning the darkened room. Seeing nothing amiss, she laid back down, attributing the strange sensation to fatigue and nerves. But a few minutes later, the feeling returned, even stronger this time, a tingling heat that pulsed through her veins.
Confused and slightly alarmed, she slowly rose from the bed, her gaze falling upon the journal resting on her bedside table. With a sense of trepidation, she reached for it, her fingers tracing the worn leather cover. Opening it carefully, she found the pages blank. Remembering Stryker's instructions, she wandlessly cast the revealing spell.
As if by magic, words began to appear in an elegant script, flowing across the page like ink blooming on water.
Did you make it back safely?
The message lingered for a fleeting moment, allowing her to read it before dissolving back into the parchment, leaving the page blank once more.
A smile tugged at her lips. He was checking on her. Reaching for a quill, she quickly penned her response.
Yes.
She watched as her word faded away, disappearing into the fibers of the page. A moment later, more words materialized in the same elegant script.
I was told you did well tonight. Fox and Saint expect you tomorrow night at 10 pm. Goodnight, Ember.
A warmth spread through her chest, a mixture of pride and something more... something that resembled excitement. As the message vanished, she wrote her reply.
Goodnight, Stryker.
Closing the journal, she snuggled back into her bed, a sense of contentment settling over her. She didn't spend much time analyzing the source of the smile that played on her lips. It was enough to know that, despite the danger and uncertainty that lay ahead, she wasn't alone.
___________
The following week blurred into a whirlwind of activities. By day, Hermione navigated the opulent halls of the palace, a demure selection contestant, careful to avoid any encounters with the prince. Her every smile felt strained, every curtsy a performance. The weight of her deception pressed heavily on her, she hated this place, but she needed to remain in the selection as long as possible.
By night, under the cloak of darkness, she transformed into Ember, the Order recruit, honing her magical skills with a fierce determination. Fox and Saint pushed her relentlessly, their training sessions a grueling test of her physical and mental endurance. She mastered defensive spells, practiced offensive maneuvers, and learned to channel her magic with precision and control. Yet, with each passing night, a nagging sense of disappointment grew within her. Stryker was absent, his towering presence missing from the training grounds.
Despite their limited interactions, his absence felt palpable. She found herself thinking about him constantly, replaying their conversations in her mind, analyzing his every word and gesture. Who was this man who knew her deepest fears and desires, who had explored the darkest corners of her mind and yet remained a mystery to her?
Each night, as she returned to the castle, exhausted but exhilarated, the familiar warmth would bloom within her core. A message would be waiting for her in the journal, a brief but reassuring inquiry about her safety.
Hermione found herself yearning for more, craving a deeper connection with the man who seemed to understand her better than anyone else. She longed to know him, to unravel the enigma that was Stryker, to understand the motivations that drove him. But for now, she had to be content with the brief messages in the journal, the silent guardian who watched over her from afar.
The selection had dwindled, the once crowded halls of the palace now echoing with the whispers of only five remaining witches. Hermione, despite her best efforts, couldn't entirely avoid the prince's attention. Ginny, her ever reliable informant, reported his persistent attempts to see her, his growing frustration at her constant refusals. He still visited Pita, showering the little girl with affection and gifts, a kindness that twisted the knife in Hermione's heart.
She knew she couldn't remain in the Selection forever. The king's assassination was her primary goal, and time was of the essence. But marrying the prince was no longer an option. Even if she managed to win his heart, he would ever forgive her for killing his father. The consequences of her actions would be swift and brutal. She would be hunted, vilified by those loyal to the crown, and likely executed without a second thought.
The thought of Pita caught in the crossfire, vulnerable and alone, filled her with a chilling dread. She had to get Pita out, to ensure her safety before the storm broke. The key lay with the snatchers, those shadowy figures who seemed to slip in and out of the kingdom at will. If she could understand their methods, their routes, she could use that knowledge to escape with Pita, to find sanctuary beyond the reach of the king's wrath.
The weight of this responsibility pressed heavily on her shoulders. Every stolen moment, every clandestine meeting with the Order, was a step closer to her goal. But the clock was ticking, and the stakes were higher than ever. She had to find a way to protect Pita, to fulfill her mission, and to escape the clutches of a kingdom that would soon turn against her.
Hermione's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, plans and anxieties swirling within her like a tempest. She barely registered the chatter of the other witches at the breakfast table, her attention consumed by the looming threat of the king and the desperate need to find a way to escape with Pita.
A firm nudge in her ribs brought her back to the present. She looked up to find Ginny and the four other remaining witches staring at her with varying degrees of amusement and concern.
"Sorry, what?" she mumbled..
"Are you excited for the upcoming ball?" Hannah chirped, her blonde hair catching the morning light.
"Oh, um, yes, very," Hermione lied, forcing a smile. The ball was the furthest thing from her mind.
"I've already picked out my gown!" Angelina gushed, her dark curls practically bouncing with excitement.
Hannah Abbot, Angelina Cole, Genevieve Lane, and Tilda Harrow were the only other witches left in the competition. Hermione wasn't surprised by their success. They were all beautiful, intelligent, and powerful in their own ways. She had formed close bonds with Hannah and Angelina, finding solace in their friendship amidst the tense atmosphere of the Selection. Tilda, sweet and shy, kept mostly to herself. And Genevieve ... well, Genevieve seemed to view the competition as a cutthroat battle, her every action calculated and her gaze often laced with disdain.
"Do you think there will be some sort of trail at the ball?" Tilda asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Genevieve scoffed. "The task is the ball. It's to see how well we can fit into society, how gracefully we can navigate the intricacies of courtly life. There will be many watchful eyes on us that night. I hope you all can keep your composure around the elite." Her eyes flickered towards Hermione as she spoke, a subtle barb that didn't go unnoticed.
Hermione's thoughts drifted once again as the other witches continued their lively discussion about outfits, potential dance partners, and what they imagined the prince might wear. She was startled back to reality by Ginny's voice, a conspiratorial whisper in her ear.
"Shall we make our escape?" Ginny proposed, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "How does some day drinking sound?"
"That sounds divine," Hermione responded, a genuine smile gracing her lips. The prospect of a few stolen hours with her friend, away from the prying eyes and stifling atmosphere, was a welcome reprieve.
"Go change and meet me in the ballroom in an hour," Ginny instructed. "I'll bring the drinks, and we can practice dancing for the ball."
Hermione nodded, and they both rose, bidding farewell to the other girls. As soon as she returned to her room, she reached for the journal, a familiar sense of anticipation bubbling within her.
I won't be able to train tonight, she wrote. I have to do some training here at the palace.
She waited, her heart quickening with each passing second. Finally, a response appeared.
Oh? the words materialized in Stryker's elegant script. And what type of training is that?
A laugh escaped her lips. Lessons in BallroomDancing... for the upcoming ball.
A long pause followed, the silence stretching on with agonizing slowness. Then, his response appeared, laced with a hint of suspicion.
Dancing with who?
She stared at the question, why did he care?
That's really none of your business, she wrote in response, a playful smile curving her lips.
Everything you do is my business now, he countered. But fine, keep your secrets. Dancing is a lot like fighting, I am sure you will be natural.
Closing the journal, Hermione couldn't suppress the smirk that played on her lips. She headed towards her closet and paused in front of the doors. What does one wear to dance? she mused, sifting through her wardrobe. Finally, she settled on a pair of tight black pants, a white tank top, and a loose-fitting blue jumper. She pulled on her boots and sat on the bed, a sense of anticipation thrumming through her veins. This impromptu dance lesson with Ginny promised to be far more entertaining than any formal ball could ever be.
An hour passed and finally Hermione emerged from her room. She nodded curtly at Ron, who stood guard outside her door, and continued down the hall.
Ron, startled by her unexpected departure, did a double take. "Wait! Hermione! Where are you going?" he called, hurrying after her.
"I'm going to meet your sister, actually," she replied, her pace quickening.
"Where at?"
"The ballroom."
"I'll escort you," he insisted, falling into step beside her.
"That's entirely unnecessary, but thank you, Ron," she said, trying to dissuade him.
He fixed her with a pleading look, his blue eyes wide and his mouth downturned. She knew he was under strict orders to keep an eye on her, and she was making his job difficult.
"Okay, fine," she relented with a sigh.
A smile broke across his face, a rare sight that warmed her heart. They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments before Ron spoke.
"I met Pita the other night," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
She stopped and turned to him, her curiosity piqued.
"We played wizarding chess," he continued. "She's getting pretty good."
Hermione smiled, touched by his kindness. "Thank you for playing with her," she said sincerely.
"I'm glad she's there... with my mum," he confessed, his voice softening. "I can see the light shining in her eyes again."
A wave of sadness washed over Hermione. She thought of Molly Weasley, of the devastating loss their family had endured. She couldn't imagine the pain of losing a child, the strength it must take to carry on. And she wondered, with a pang of guilt, how Ron could continue serving a king who had murdered his own brother. If she ever lost Pita... well, she wouldn't survive it.
"I'm glad to hear that," she finally managed, her voice thick with emotion.
They rounded a corner, and Hermione froze in her tracks. At the end of the hall stood two figures, their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace. She recognized the prince's pale blond hair first, then realized the woman pressed against him was Genevieve, her sleek black hair gleaming under the sconces. Genevieve lips were inches from the prince's, her hand trailing seductively down his chest. Hermione's heart plummeted to her stomach, a sharp pang of jealousy piercing through her.
The prince's eyes met hers, widening in surprise. He gently pushed Genevieve away and took a step towards Hermione, but she quickly turned and fled down the opposite hallway, Ron hot on her heels.
Reaching the ballroom, she bid Ron a hasty farewell and slammed the doors shut behind her, effectively cutting off any further conversation. Leaning against the heavy wood, she let out a shaky breath. She shouldn't be hurt, shouldn't be jealous. She was planning to betray the prince, to assassinate his father. A future with him was impossible. But why did the sight of him with Genevieve sting so much?
Ginny stood on the opposite side of the ballroom, a mischievous grin on her face. She waved a large bottle of whiskey in the air, her eyes sparkling with amusement. As Hermione approached, Ginny thrust the bottle into her hands. Hermione took three large gulps, the fiery liquid burning its way down her throat.
"Oh!" Ginny exclaimed with a laugh. "So it's going to be that kind of day?" She snatched the bottle back and took a generous swig herself.
"Yes, it is," Hermione confirmed, her voice firm.
"Everything alright?" Ginny asked, her brow furrowed with concern.
"Yes, I'm fine," Hermione lied, forcing a smile.
Ginny, radiant in a light blue dress, looked as beautiful as ever. Her long red hair cascaded down her back, and her cheeks were already flushed from the whiskey, her freckles standing out in stark contrast.
"Well, shall we?" Ginny asked, setting the bottle down and extending her hand towards Hermione.
Hermione laughed and curtsied dramatically. Ginny waved her hand, and music began to play from an unseen source. She explained the basic steps, and they began their impromptu dance lesson. Hermione stumbled over Ginny's feet, their laughter echoing through the empty ballroom.
"You need to let me lead, Hermione," Ginny instructed, her voice laced with amusement.
"I don't even know what that means!" Hermione laughed, her cheeks flushed with a combination of exertion and whiskey.
They continued dancing for an hour, Hermione slowly improving under Ginny's patient guidance. They paused frequently for "drink breaks," and soon both were giggling uncontrollably, the combination of alcohol and laughter leaving them breathless and lightheaded.
Hermione had been meaning to broach the subject of the snatchers with Ginny, but the right moment had always seemed to elude her. Now, however, as they sat on the ballroom floor, passing the whiskey bottle back and forth during a much needed break from their haphazard dance practice, she decided it was as good a time as any.
"Ginny?" she began tentatively.
"Hermione?" Ginny responded, her eyes narrowing playfully, mirroring Hermione's serious tone.
"Where do the snatchers reside?" Hermione asked, her voice hushed. "Are they here in the palace?"
Ginny's playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a look of genuine concern. "What are you up to, Hermione?"
"Nothing," she replied, hating the lie that slipped from her lips. "I'm just curious." She couldn't reveal her true intentions, couldn't risk jeopardizing Ginny's safety or burdening her with the knowledge of her plans.
"I suppose they probably do," Ginny conceded. "They are certainly soldiers of the king, but their identities are unknown."
"I'd like to know how they come and go from the kingdom," Hermione admitted, carefully choosing her words.
"That information is not known by many," Ginny explained. "A secret the king has kept hidden from most. I would assume only his most trusted advisors know how to come and go."
"And who are they?" Hermione pressed.
"Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, Nott Senior, Corban Yaxley, Alecto and Amycus Carrow, and Severus Snape," Ginny recited. "You'll likely meet most of them at the ball."
Hermione committed the names to memory, filing the information away for later analysis. The music still echoed softly through the ballroom as they sat in contemplative silence, the whiskey warming their blood and loosening their tongues.
"I suppose we should keep practicing," Ginny slurred, her words slightly blurred.
Hermione hiccuped in response, and they both struggled to their feet, brushing off their clothes and giggling at their clumsiness. Hermione removed her jumper and kicked off her boots. They resumed their dance practice, holding onto each other tightly to maintain their balance, their laughter echoing through the empty hall.
Suddenly, the doors to the ballroom swung open, interrupting their revelry. Hermione and Ginny turned to see two tall figures entering the room.
Ginny froze, her grip tightening on Hermione's arm. Draco and Theo stood in the doorway, their expressions a mixture of amusement and surprise.
"Your Highness!" Ginny exclaimed, attempting a clumsy curtsy that nearly sent her tumbling to the floor. "What an honor to see you." Hermione noticed that Ginny hadn't acknowledged Theo, her gaze fixed solely on the prince.
"Sorry to interrupt," Draco replied, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile as he took in the scene: the music, the nearly empty bottle of whiskey, and the two giggling witches.
"We were actually just leaving," Hermione blurted out, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. Neither she nor Ginny moved as Theo and the prince approached.
"I didn't know you danced," Draco remarked, his eyes fixed on Hermione.
"I don't... well, I didn't," she stammered. "Ginny was just teaching me."
Draco waved his hand, and the music changed, transforming into a slower melody. "May I have the next dance?" he asked politely, his silver eyes never leaving hers.
"I better be getting back, it's late," Hermione hedged, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Just one before you go? Please?" he pressed, his gaze searching her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. She couldn't bring herself to refuse him. She needed to maintain her position in the Selection, and she had been avoiding him all week. She glanced at Ginny, who nodded subtly and offered an encouraging smile.
"Okay," Hermione finally agreed.
Ginny, still ignoring Theo, made her way towards the door.
"Ginny..." Theo whispered, his voice barely audible.
Ginny continued walking, her gaze fixed ahead, and exited the ballroom without a backward glance. Theo watched her disappear, his expression unreadable.
“You okay, Mate?” Draco asked cautiously and Hermione could see the worry etched in his features.
Theo didn’t respond. He apparated away without a word.
Draco stood before her, his presence filling the space. He was dressed in a black button down shirt and black trousers, his robes discarded for the evening. His hair was slightly tousled, and he smelled freshly showered, with a hint of pine clinging to his skin. He extended his hand, and Hermione tentatively placed hers in his. She was accustomed to Ginny's small, delicate hands, and his felt enormous in comparison, warm and strong as they closed around hers. She placed her other hand on his shoulder, acutely aware of his height and the firm muscles beneath his shirt. He wrapped his arm around her waist. Her small shirt had ridden up, exposing her torso, and her stomach did a nervous flip flop when his fingers touched her bare skin. As they began to dance, she felt as if her feet barely touched the ground. She didn't stumble, didn't falter, as he led her around the room, his eyes holding hers captive.
"Why have you been avoiding me?" Draco murmured, his voice barely audible above the soft melody that filled the room.
"I haven't been avoiding you," she lied, averting her gaze.
He tilted his head, his silver eyes studying her with a gentle intensity that made her heart flutter. He didn't miss a step as they danced, their bodies moving in perfect sync.
"I've stopped by your room several times," he continued, his voice laced with a hint of sadness. "Asked Ginny to deliver messages..." He trailed off, his expression a mixture of confusion and hurt.
"I suppose I was just taking some time to recover from the last trial," she offered, another lie slipping effortlessly from her lips.
"I've been dying to see you, to talk to you, since the trial," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I just saw you earlier tonight," she teased, a coy smile playing on her lips. "Do you not recall?"
His grip tightened around her waist, and he lifted her effortlessly into the air, spinning her in a graceful circle before gently setting her back down. "That... that wasn't what it looked like," he insisted, his voice firm.
"You don't need to make excuses," she replied, her voice softening. "You don't owe me any explanation. You're trying to select your wife, after all."
He stopped abruptly, his gaze piercing hers. "I meant it when I said I wanted you to win this Selection," he declared, his voice filled with conviction. "I have known since the moment I laid eyes on you. I don't want anyone else."
"Why?" she breathed, her heart pounding in her chest.
"I can't explain it," he admitted, his voice laced with wonder. "You've bewitched me. I roam the halls just hoping to steal a moment with you. When I'm not with you, I'm thinking about you. When I'm not thinking about you, I'm dreaming about you. It's driving me completely mad."
His confession hung in the air, leaving her speechless.
"I wish our circumstances were different," he continued, his voice filled with longing. "I wish I could court you properly. I wish you had a choice, and that if you did, you would choose me. I want to make you happy. I want to see you smile. I want you to be free. I want to protect you and Pita."
Her heart ached at the sincerity in his eyes, the raw emotion etched on his face. He looked pained, vulnerable, pleading.
"I'm not sure what has changed over the last week," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "but I'm begging you, I will get on my knees if I have to, please come back to me. Give me another chance." He closed his eyes and leaned down, burying his head in her neck, his warm breath sending a jolt down her spine.
"There are things you don't know about me," she whispered into his ear, her voice trembling. "Things that may change your mind."
He pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "There is nothing you could do that would change the way I feel about you," he vowed, his voice filled with unwavering certainty.
Hermione longed to believe him, to trust his words, but she knew she couldn't. He would never forgive her for what she planned to do.
"Okay," she finally said, her voice barely a whisper.
"Okay?" he echoed, his eyes widening in surprise.
"I will try," she promised, her heart heavy with the weight of her deception.
He nodded, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, twirling her in a joyful circle. He brought her back down to eye level with him, her feet hovering above the ground, her chest pressed into his. He kissed her forehead gently and then her cheek and then the corner of her mouth. He pressed his check against hers and held her tightly. She melted into him.
They continued dancing, lost in the moment, neither of them speaking. Hermione soaked up this version of him, the version that adored her, the version that had yet to be betrayed. The version of him that dreamed of a life together that would never come.
********
When Hermione returned to her room that night, the remnants of the day fading into a dull throb in her temples, she went straight to her journal. A splitting headache pounded behind her eyes as the buzz of the whiskey wore off, but a sense of urgency propelled her forward.
She opened the journal and scrawled a quick message.
Can you meet tonight?
The response was almost immediate.
Why?
She chewed on the end of the quill, puzzling over her reply. How could she phrase her request without revealing too much, without arousing suspicion?
I want you to teach me Legilimency.
Her words vanished, and she waited, nerves tightening her stomach into knots.
Why?
His persistent one word replies were beginning to test her patience.
Another protective measure.Can you teach me or not?
It can't wait?
No, it couldn't. She needed to master Legilimency before the ball in four days. She needed to delve into the minds of the king's inner circle, to glean any information that might help her plan. She knew it would be risky, attempting to penetrate their minds undetected, especially with their shields likely reinforced. But she had to try.
No, it can't wait.
Fine. Give me an hour. Bring your wand.
Fine.
She arrived at the familiar field, finding it deserted except for the flickering light emanating from within the tent. Anticipation churned in her stomach, a mixture of excitement and apprehension. She was eager to see him, eager to learn, but a tremor of nervousness ran through her. She crept inside the tent, finding Stryker seated at his desk, his usual imposing figure leaning back in his chair, boots propped on the table, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Ember," he acknowledged with a tilt of his head.
"Stryker," she replied with a nod, approaching the desk and taking the seat opposite him. He poured a second glass of whiskey and offered it to her. She accepted gratefully, taking a long sip, hoping to dull the throbbing in her head.
"So, where do we begin?" she asked.
"We will start with the incantation and the wand movements," he responded, his voice surprisingly casual.
"But you don't use a wand," she pointed out.
"And that took years to master," he countered, a hint of amusement in his tone.
"I need to learn how to do it wandlessly," she insisted, her voice firm.
His eyes narrowed, and he sat forward, removing his boots from the table. The air in the tent crackled with a sudden intensity. The firelight danced across his masked face, obscuring his expression.
"Legilimency," he began, his voice low and resonant, "is the art of navigating the labyrinth of another's mind. It is a powerful tool, Ember, but one that demands respect and restraint."
She nodded, her eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and determination.
"The first step," he continued, "is to establish a connection. Focus your intent, visualize the person whose mind you wish to enter. Imagine a cord extending from your mind to theirs."
He demonstrated the intricate hand movements and whispered the incantation, and she mirrored him, her movements precise, her voice a hushed echo of his own.
She closed her eyes, picturing his mind, focusing her intent. She concentrated, visualizing a shimmering thread connecting them. She could almost feel the warmth of his presence, the gentle hum of his thoughts.
"Now," he instructed, his voice a gentle guide in the stillness, "reach out. Gently probe my mental defenses, seek an opening."
She extended her mental tendrils, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. She encountered a barrier, a dark, impenetrable wall of resistance that pulsed with Stryker's unique energy. She sought a weakness, a crack in the armor of his thoughts.
"Patience, Ember," he cautioned. "Forcing your way in will only trigger alarm and resistance. Seek an invitation, a welcoming path, especially if you don't want them to know you are inside."
She softened her approach, her mental touch becoming a gentle caress. She focused on their connection, on the fragile trust that had begun to blossom between them. Slowly, the barrier yielded, revealing glimpses of his thoughts. It felt strange to be on this side, the intruder entering his mind. Yet, there was an unexpected familiarity, a sense of ease that surprised her. Her body tingled with the intimacy of the connection.
"Gently now," he reminded her. "Observe, but do not intrude, if you want to remain undiscovered."
She knew he was controlling what she saw, guiding her through a carefully curated landscape of his mind. It was like being trapped inside a dark box he had created just for her. She yearned for more, wanted to explore the hidden corners of his consciousness, to feel the full spectrum of his emotions.
You are truly incredible, do you know that? His voice echoed within the darkened space of his mind. Many people never make it this far.
She watched as the room ebbed and brightened with his words, feeling the undercurrent of his emotions: respect, awe, surprise. She moved to the edges of the space, searching for another crack, another weak spot. She wanted to go deeper, to experience the raw intensity that she could sense simmering beneath the surface. Rage? Anger? Fear?
She felt his hesitation as she continued her exploration, his reluctance to let her delve further. He began to gently push her out, but she resisted. She didn't want to leave, wanted to stay wrapped in his darkness, to linger in the strange euphoria of his mind. The cord connecting them began to glow brighter, leading her down a path she hadn't yet explored. He pushed harder, but she held on, driven by an insatiable curiosity.
ENOUGH. His voice boomed through the darkened space, and she felt a surge of panic emanating from him. But an unseen force propelled her onward, a desperate craving for more, a need to drown in the intoxicating rush of being inside his head.
She broke through a crack in his mental defenses, and a vision burst into existence before her. She could feel him writhing, attempting to expel her, shock and surprise radiating from him. He hadn't expected her to break through, let alone with such force and speed. He was clearly astounded by her level of mastery, achieved in such a short amount of time.
The vision played out like a memory, vivid and immersive. She recognized the location instantly: the seventh ring. She looked down at boots that weren't her own, leaving footprints in the damp dirt road. The bustling town square, the stalls overflowing with goods, the faces of vendors – it was all so familiar. She could feel his emotions: the pain, the anger, the helplessness that washed over him as he observed the struggling people around him.
She continued walking in his body, a passenger in a memory that wasn't her own, unable to control his movements, yet experiencing everything with a startling clarity. She felt the rough texture of his robes, the weight of the hood pulled low over his head, the suffocating pressure of the cloth concealing his face. He moved through the crowd unnoticed, his eyes scanning the faces, searching for someone.
His heart tightened, and she felt it as a sharp pang in her own chest. He had found what he was searching for.
It was…her.
He was searching for her. But how? How could this be? She felt the curiosity, the intrigue that pulled at him, drawing him towards her like a moth to a flame.
He watched her from the shadows, his gaze intense and unwavering, as she purchased a few items from a stall. She remembered this day, remembered buying those things. It was nearly two years ago. His heartbeat quickened when she turned, catching him staring. She felt his stomach flutter as he took in her eyes for the first time, a wave of warmth washing over him. He was captivated, bewildered, drawn to her like nothing he had ever experienced before. He wanted to approach her, to speak to her, but he hesitated, fear and uncertainty holding him back. She turned away, and she felt the disappointment that churned in his gut.
The memory blurred and dissolved, replaced by another. Another day in the seventh ring. He followed her as she walked towards the fighting rings late one night. He entered the dimly lit establishment, and horror spiked through him as he realized what she was about to do. He wanted to stop her, to intervene, fear gripping him as she stepped into the ring. He watched, his anxiety growing with each punch, each kick, as she beat her opponent to a bloody pulp. His fear transformed into admiration, then awe.
The memory shifted and pulsed, morphing into another, then another, and another. Countless memories of him watching her, following her, worrying about her. The excitement that surged through him whenever he spotted her in a crowd. The admiration he felt as he witnessed her defend Pita and others who needed protection. The pain he experienced as he watched her struggle. The deep, unwavering love that blossomed within him...
Suddenly, she was ripped from his mind with a force that sent her tumbling from her chair. She landed on the ground with a thud, her breath coming in ragged gasps. He towered over her, his own breathing heavy and uneven.
She pushed herself up onto her hands, glaring at him, her eyes narrowed. "What the fuck was that?!"
He stared at her, speechless, his dark eyes filled with a storm of emotions: anger, fear, regret. He raised his wand, pointing it at her, and she flinched, scrambling backwards, her eyes darting around the tent, searching for an escape. He winced as he watched panic consume her.
"I'm sorry, Hermione," he whispered, his voice thick with despair.
"Sorry for what?" she cried, her voice laced with fear and confusion.
"Obliviate," he whispered.